Johnlock, Deep Waters
by MsAnnieOakley1
Summary: Afghanistan has ruined John's mind, so when Sherlock asks him to be at Deep Waters pond at 2 something John had always dreaded would happen did. Someone gets shot, horror grips the other.


The yellow streams of sunlight radiated off of the blue sheen of water, blinding John as he stared out over the pond that was three times the size of his flat. Just the other day there had been a badly decomposing body somewhere deep within that had only been discovered by a fisherman who had somehow managed to snag the remnants of an almost skeletal hand. Of course John and Sherlock had been called to the scene, and of course the brilliant man that John lived with had solved the crime in record breaking speed.

A small blue heron rose from the shallows across the way, water trailing from its long body as it flew over the pond, and drifted over the willows that surrounded it. Shielding his eyes from the sun John admired the beauty of the serene fresh water reservoir and wondered why the consultant had brought him here. Pulling out his small phone he checked his messages and found no new ones, just Sherlock's which read, "John-Deep Waters Pond. 2 P.M. –SH". He sent a sidelong glance at his cheap watch and found that it was 2:13 and let out a sigh. Sherlock was never late.

Then raising his gaze and squinting his eyes the doctor saw that a figure engulfed in a black cloak was approaching from the far side of the pond, his head hidden within it. The heat didn't matter, this figure always wore black over every inch of his body. John raised his free hand in greeting but stopped halfway when he found there was something wrong-a figure followed behind, a weapon in hand.

"What in the-" ear bursting shots erupted from the pursuer causing John to drop to the ground instinctively. With a halted look up he found Sherlock running full speed at him with little effort, his long legs taking huge strides that the shooter had to match with an equivalent of at least three of his own. More shots fire. Causing horror to overcome John. Afghanistan had ruined him, he unwillingly fell into a fear induced flashback.

_Rapid machine gun fire splattered less than a meter from him into the mud wall as Afghanis attacked him and his squad. Adrenaline took over and John was quickly loading his own gun and firing back, occasionally hearing a scream as bullets met their targets, the spray of blood falling from their perch on roofs and landing far down on the dirt walk leaving small red splotches in the dust that covered everything. _

"John!" Sherlock's baritone voice boomed next to him but he couldn't snap back to reality.

_Vision red with rage, John fired randomly. Anything with a gun was shot. Soon, though, he found the firing had begun to cease and only a few shooters remained. All but one were quickly dispatched. Why weren't they shooting the last one? His shots echoing off of the surroundings buildings. These bullets weren't really hitting any targets, just the wall surrounding the American soldiers. Then something happened-_

"John! Come on!" A tugging on his arm. "John whatever is your problem?!" He was pulled to his feet but his legs couldn't support him and he fell. "**John!**" The voice was dripping with fear.

_-A shot fired in slow motion. John watched the bullet slice through the air without effort, its spiral motion leaving small white wisps in the air behind. Before John knew it the reflective silver object was close enough he could see his reflection in it, then it barreled forward in real time and buried itself into the man beside him. Right between the eyes. _

The gunshots sounded so close, then a stinging pain shot through John's head and his temple felt like it was on fire. "Oh my- John!" The voice screamed again, "Come to!" The sound of a scuffle sounded then another shot and John was lifted into strong arms.

_John stared as a small trickle of blood leaked from the fresh wound and the soldier fell slowly down the wall. Abruptly John raised his scope and trained it on the assassin but froze in horror: he was a child, no more than ten, face covered in dirt and wearing rags, holding a gun that is too big for him. This gun was aimed right at John's head. _

A warm flow began on John's cheek and he jerked as a cold hand reached up and wiped it away rapidly. "For the love of Christ John please wake up." The voice begged and vibrations shook his body.

"Sherlock?" He whispered.

_John pulled the trigger. _

A blurry vision of Sherlock looking down at him lingered in John's mind. Did it happen? Was it a dream? His eyes flickered open and he snapped them shut immediately in pain- the light was so absolutely blinding that it felt like his pupils had exploded. He let out a small moan as his temple began to rhythmically throb to its own heartbeat. _Where am I? What the bloody hell happened? _Soon he began to panic. His arms flailed around helplessly. He reached for something to grab ahold of-something to defend himself with. In blind terror John had opened his eyes wide open again and no matter how hard he tried he just couldn't see past the light. Wildly he sat up and regretted it as he hit his upper forehead on something, became very dizzy and fell back on the surface in which he was lying.

As he tried to regain his sense of balance, a sudden commotion sounded to his immediate right: the sound of a person shuffling from carpeted floor onto tile floor sadly into the room, then a sudden stop, light raspy familiar breaths, and then the sound of a dish being thrown onto a marble counter.

Abruptly the torturous light clicked off and John fell into darkness as his pupils tried to regenerate their ability to intake light, and a hand slid into his as Sherlock whispered, "John, are you okay?"

He knew exactly where he was, and felt absurd for not attempting to figure it out. The clue were there: a bright examination light that hovered above the kitchen table for Sherlock's experiments, the carpeted floor transitioning into tile from the lounging room into that one, and the marble countertops. All John had to do was listen.

"John can you please answer me?" His voice was full of concern and the grip on his hand tightened with concern. "I haven't heard your voice in so long.." Sherlock whispered. Something splattered onto John's hand- was that a tear?

The consultant's hand in his was indubitably odd, Sherlock wasn't one for affection, but John liked it-the soft of his palm that transitioned into rough callouses and long bony fingers, and the way they always radiated cold, not warmth. "Sherlock?" John attempted to question but only produced a croak. His voice was gone.

"Oh, John I'm so sorry. This is all my fault. Why had I tried to meet up with you? Dammit I'm so foolish. I'm absolutely and positively sorry." The baritone voice bounced and echoed off of the small kitchen walls and reminded John of his throbbing head and he winced, causing Sherlock to lower his voice. "Once he started firing you just dropped. Abruptly I thought you had been hit, and I rushed to your side but found you sound and alive but staring straight ahead as if dead. I was just so-" his voice cracked, "so scared."

"Sherlock." John managed a whisper and ran his thumb over the cold hand which embraced his. _What is going on? Sherlock never expresses emotions so much in depth-and he most certainly never cries. _John thought and clutched Sherlock's hand and noticed his vision had begun to return for he could just make out the shape of the pale man. His head was lowered and it seemed even more pale than usual, as John stared he saw that Sherlock was indeed crying as small tears fell from his sharp cheekbones with soft _plips_ against the countertop. Impulsively John stretched his other arm across his body, ignoring that numb pain in his body, and rested his palm on the pale cheek. Sherlock leaned into it.

"John," He whispered, "I feared the man-a deranged murderer whom I had been following-was going to shoot you. I yelled your name but you just laid there, staring straight ahead barely breathing. Then you got hit with a bullet." His body shook as he took in a sharp breath and let it out shakily. "I thought it had gone in and had taken you away forever. I instantly turned on the guy, got the gun and shot him." John could see clearly now and noted that he was indeed on his kitchen table. He slowly sat up-making sure to avoid the lamp- and turned and lowered his legs off of the table, John was afraid that if he stood on them that he would collapse so he had just left them to dangle as he let Sherlock lean forward to rest his head on his friends chest and in return John rested his head on top of his.

"Sherlock I'm fine," John rasped. _Why is my voice gone? _"My head hurts a tad but that is it. I'm okay."

"When I saw that the bullet had only gone into your head, but not into your skull, I lost it. I picked you up and ran. You were so limp I swore you were dead. Then once I got you here you came to and started freaking out-flailing everywhere and screaming at the top of your lungs- I just couldn't," He stopped and lifted his head slightly so that John's lips rested on his forehead. John felt safe like this and sighed in content, "I had to sedated you. Then every time you regained consciousness all you did was scream so I had to keep doing that. It went on for days."

Days. John had been unconscious for day. _That explains my voice and stiffness_. "I'm here now Sherlock-I'm okay. I-I just need to get off of this table and onto something more comfy."

Almost instantaneously Sherlock jumped to his feet with the reflexes of a cat and towered over the much smaller man. "Can-can you walk?" He murmured quizzically.

Tentatively John slid off of the table, but as soon as he landed his legs buckled and he was just about the hit the floor when Sherlock's slender arms shot out and caught him. "I guess that's a no." John murmured and looked up at rescuer who was staring down at him with icy eyes. An odd idea popped into his head, "Could you carry me?"

A tender smile flashed across the consultant's pale face and he answered by slowly scooping John up with ease-almost as if he was a doll-and began to stroll towards the chair in the lounging room. He was just about to set him down in the chair when a frown crossed John's face and he looked away. "Whatever is wrong John?"

The doctor blushed and murmured something that Sherlock had wished he would say, "I don't want to be alone.. can you sit with me?"

"Of course John!" Then he swiveled so that his bottom was facing the chair and gingerly lowered himself into it so that John was resting in his lap with his short legs hanging off of the chair's side. He leaned back against Sherlock's grey shirt and noted that it was damp with tears. They laid there like that for a while until John began to shiver which in return caused Sherlock to reach behind him and grab the brown fleece blanket that was left draped there, and wrapped it around John and himself. "John?" Sherlock whispered after a few minutes of silence.

"Hmm?" He moaned, signifying that he was dozing off.

"What was the memory that the shooter brought back about?" He gently reached down and ran his hand through John's dirty blonde hair as he answered tiredly, "The child assassin."

As they sat there in silence their hearts seemed to beat as one and their warmth radiated throughout their souls.

When John woke up Sherlock's head was propped up on his arm which rested on side of the chair. He couldn't tell if he was awake or not so he just left him be. He also found that one of Sherlock's legs had been pulled up so that his foot rested on the seat of the chair, and John was clutching this leg like it was a life preserver in a sea of misery. His pain had subsided and had been replaced with a feeling that John only describe as love.

The warmth that radiated from Sherlock's still, pale body made John feel safe- like nothing could harm him. He felt a strange stirring inside of him, a stirring that he had only felt the first day that John had met Sherlock-it was a feeling of love. His soft body was the perfect cushion for John, and not wanting to disturb the slumbering Sherlock, he just leaned back and cuddled against the slender leg and closed his eyes.

"John?" the deep whisper wafted down and reached John's ears.

"Yes Sherlock?"

"Are you okay?" John felt his icy stare on him.

Leaning his head back and looking up into his eyes made John's heart race. "I am now." He whispered.

A soft smile lifted on his pale cheeks as he ran his free hand through sandy hair and he whispered, "I love you."


End file.
